Kiss It Better
by quitesirius
Summary: Ron checks on Hermione the night they escape Malfoy Manor. Rated for dark references.


**Author's Note:**

I am coming out of hibernation (for real this time, I promise). I have FINALLY graduated from college and find myself with only a part-time job, so… I have decided to dedicate myself to finishing all old fanfics as well as posting a bunch of new one-shots. **IF YOU ARE GOING TO LEAKYCON 2012,** and would like to meet up, I will be in attendance. Shoot me a private message and we'll see if we can hang out!

Reminder: REVIEWS MAKE ME WRITE FASTER and/or BETTER.

**Kiss It Better**

The sound of waves sliding in and out over the sand was trying so hard to be comforting, swishing and swirling with hopes that perhaps it could lull him into sleep. The gentle oceanic breeze swept in his window, attempting to wrap around him or ruffle his hair with reassurance. The scent of the water wanted so badly to be subtle and welcoming, but it somehow sensed it was a losing battle. The ocean wanted to help. It was a never-ending push and pull, as timeless as the world itself, and really, wasn't there some comfort to be found in that?

Yet Ron Weasley was wide-awake and bleary-eyed with a terror that would not leave him. He sat on the windowsill of the bedroom he was sharing with Harry at Shell Cottage, staring out over the sea that could not calm him despite its best efforts. He felt shivers as the breeze flitted over his skin, still soaked with sweat and tears. And really, it was the only thing he felt besides the cold terror in the pit of his stomach. His eyes, blank and far-off, would not stop playing the events of the day.

Dobby dead. It was awful, yes, and unnerved him in a way he didn't put into words. How was it that someone so innocent, so brave and loyal, who had been in and out of the group's lives for years now… could be gone? So completely and utterly gone, buried in the sand beneath a stone that was the only evidence he had ever existed?

But as sad as he was for the elf, Dobby only made quick appearances between the constant replay of the true reason Ron was awake at four in the morning.

Hermione. Screams. Curses. Banging against the walls. No escape. Why the hell wasn't Harry panicking? That damned woman, taking a knife to Hermione. The screaming. The screaming. No escape. No way to save her.

Ron breathed in sharply when he heard Harry shuffle around under his blanket. A stab of anger shot through him- how could Harry be sleeping after such a day? He shook his head after a moment. Wasn't Harry used to the worst things happening to people he loved? Maybe it never got easier, but maybe after a while his body simply demanded rest before the next bad thing.

Ron had seen bad things. Had experienced bad things. But nothing near what Harry had, or would.

He got up and tread softly to the door, which creaked slightly when he opened it. Harry sat up, alert for a second before Ron shushed him and said he was off for a drink of water. Harry immediately slumped back into bed with a muffle Ron couldn't make out.

Ron tip-toed into the hall and to the door immediately next to his and Harry's. He pressed his ear up against it, listening for sounds of someone awake. A flash of the screaming… the need to help… He hated standing outside this door. He needed to know.

Gently, he pushed on the doorknob and peeked around the corner.

There she was. Sitting up in bed, lamp on, staring down blankly at a book. She looked up, eyes bloodshot and oh-so-tired.

"Ron?" she asked, a bit raspy. "Everything alright?"

He swallowed and nodded a bit. "Yeah. Just checking in on you."

She nodded grimly, her face showing no expression. "Thank you. I'm reading."

"I- I'll leave you to it then," he said quietly, but just as he was about to close the door, he popped back in. He couldn't bear walls separating them anymore. "Hermione?"

She said nothing, just looked up at him, right hand nervously twirling at her hair. He swallowed again, feeling almost like he was trying to get down a bowling ball. He stepped closer, nervously, but each time his mind played back the screams that had tore at every fiber of his being and lit them with torturous fire, his steps became more confident. He had to do this. Unlike in the dungeon, there was nothing to keep him away from her.

He sat on the edge of her bed, near her waist, and from this vantage he could see the terrible look in her eyes. Hermione, so strong and brave and full of knowledge, now looked like a lost little girl. No, not a lost little girl. She looked more like how he remembered Ginny was after a nightmare or during a massive lightning storm.

Ron slid his hand over the blanket somewhat cautiously, but gaining bravery the closer he came to her. He needed to touch her, to know that she was really here and whole and warm. He felt her fingers stiffen for a moment as he curled his hand around hers, then relax as her eyes began to well. He took his free hand and reached up to wipe away her tears, but before he could, she threw her arms around him and began to silently sob into his shoulder.

He could not fathom it. He had some idea of what had happened to her, but it was so hard to mesh this with the girl he knew. The girl who had successfully told Grawp to put her down, who had punched Malfoy in the face, who had figured out what was in the Chamber, who had taught him so many spells and displayed so many every-day and extraordinary braveries and moments of genius that he was both impressed and annoyed on a regular basis. What terror had seized her that made her look so hollow and afraid to sleep?

Despite himself, he let a few tears of his own escape. He knew he had to be strong and steady for her. Hermione would need some time, but she would know what to do. She would tell him what to do to make this right. She always did, whether verbally or not.

"You're alright now," he said quietly into her hair. "Got you." He rocked her gently, as his mother had done for him whenever he'd been hurt. He wasn't sure what else to do. How could he possibly begin to soothe torture? "Want me to see if Bill and Fleur have some sleep serum?"

She pulled away from him a bit, wiping furiously at her face. He knew immediately that she did not want to seem weak, and for once, he was glad of her stubborn temper. Not even Bellatrix Lestrange could totally smash Hermione into submission.

"N-no. I need to finish this reading." She pulled away completely and Ron felt quite cold as the ocean breeze rushed between them and skittered over the pages of her book.

"Hermione," he said gently, reaching out to put his hand over the words, "You've read it four times since we left home."

"I-I know I've missed something-" She began to ramble and flip pages at a maddening pace, but Ron stopped listening and watching when he saw the red stain seeping through Hermione's sleeve.

He was not sure what to say or do, and each time he made to say something, he let out a strange noise. Before long, she had stopped and followed his gaze. Immediately, she began to silently cry and reached for the nightstand, where a bowl of essence of murtlap sat near some bandages.

"I-it won't do any good, will it?" Both knew it was a rhetorical question, but Ron's mouth wouldn't stop. "Like George's ear? Or my splinching scars?""

"Go away, Ron." She snapped, suddenly bristling into the girl he had fought with so many times- a formidable opponent whether in a Yule Ball dress or her pajamas. "I want to do this alone."

"But-"

"GO."

For a split second, Ron's temper flared and nearly got the best of him. He was on his feet, ready to start hurling accusations about her ridiculous notion that she could do anything and everything by herself with no help whatsoever. Before his temper could take the reins, however, Ron caught sight of the red patch on her sleeve, and immediately his anger diminished and blew out the window and into the sea, where it drown.

He sat down, determined, and snatched the bowl from her shaking hand. She was about to say something, about to tell him where he could go, but she too stopped herself and whispered, "I… I don't want you to see."

Blue eyes met brown, and he again had her hand in his grasp. "Hermione…"

"Please, Ron-"

"Hermione, it's okay to let someone help you once in a while." He dipped the rag into the bowl and scooted a bit closer. He steeled himself, unsure of what she would reveal. Fleur had been quiet when he had pestered her with questions. "Up with your sleeve."

She stared at him, too scared to move, and shook her head. "It's awful, Ron. "

"Hey," he said firmly, staring directly into her face. "Listen. Hermione? I, um," he paused, knowing that he was facing down a damaged Hermione, rather than a fully-intact one, and had to be gentle and straight-forward all at once, "I mean this in the nicest way, you know, but I'm going to see it sooner or later."

She shook slightly at these words, and he could tell she knew he was right. He could see her inching toward another collapse, could see the stain on her shirt spreading, her defenses beginning to falter. Slowly, ever so slowly, she began to roll up her sleeve. Just as she came to the stain, she gave him one last tearful look, then continued.

"MUDBLOOD"

He became a statue. Of all the things… of all the wicked, horrible, awful things… A surge of hatred filled him and for a moment he was again at Malfoy Manor, facing Bellatrix. He wanted to kill her- not with a wand, but with his hands. He wanted to strangle her, to make her feel as bad as Hermione- no, worse.

"I-" Hermione said, then stopped.

Ron was immediately in the present. He met her eyes, filled to bursting, and that same heart-breaking look they'd had in second year when Malfoy had uttered that foul word. "Oh, Hermione…"

Her tears began to drip again. She was fighting them so hard.

"Shh… it's not true. It's not true." He said, scooting closer and doing his best to comfort her with his hands full. "You know that's not true."

"It'll never go away," she sobbed, and he set the bowl and rag down just before she fell against him in a torrent of grief and pain. He thought he heard Harry stir for a second, but nobody came to check on them, so he said nothing and let her cry.

"It's not true," he whispered over and over, rocking her and shushing her and crying a little himself. "I'm so sorry," he repeated now and again, holding her so tight his arms ached. He had never been so sorry in his life.

She cried herself dry, and sat back with a desolate look as he began to clean her wound. The murtlap helped. However, Hermione was right- though the bleeding slowed and the skin began to heal, he knew the words would stay etched clearly across her beautiful, pale skin until she died and rotted away. Bellatrix had used a blade coated in Dark Magic- the same that had killed Dobby had scarred Hermione irreparably.

"It hurts," she said, staring down at it as Ron ran the rag over it again. "It hurts so badly. Like when you think your skin will burst into flames after you burn it."

"Is there something else I can do? I- I'm not good with healing spells, but I will try if you-"

"Kiss it better," she said, sounding very nearly like a little girl talking to her mother. Her eyes were distant again and he wondered if maybe she was thinking of her mother, somewhere in Australia with no idea who Hermione was.

He remembered his mother. Each time Fred or George played a joke on him, Ron got a kiss on the forehead. Each time Percy said something mean. Each time he fell off his broom. When Ginny had closed his hand in the door. Whenever he came home from Hogwarts. The more intense the injury, whether physical or emotional, the longer or more numerous the kisses. Sometimes, they were on his forehead. Other times, usually with physical pains, they were located on or around the wound.

He narrowed his brows at the memories as well as at the new territory he could sense he was on the edge of. He was familiar with what she wanted, but he puzzled at the reasons. Was it for the familiarity? Was it for comfort? Did she miss her mother? Was this just how muggles did things? Or… was it a token from him that she wanted?

She was hurt all over, physically and mentally. This was Hermione, who he was sure was the only person properly equipped to put herself back together. What could he say or do? Not much. Only what she asked.

He faltered for a second. He would give her whatever she wanted. He could not deny her anything in this moment. But he wondered… Did she want the quick, reassuring kiss of brother to sister? Or did she want the lingering kiss that spoke of the emotions of a possible lover?

"Lover", he thought. When had he ever used that word? He supposed, in his sleep-deprived, teary-eyed stupor, that it didn't matter. After the events of the day… seeing Luna locked in a dungeon, Dobby's death, Pettigrew strangling himself, and hearing Hermione's screams, he couldn't care one wit about his choice of words. He knew that he had grown up that day.

And while it was a strange and scary notion, that of a "lover" or "boyfriend" or whatever word he picked, he knew that was what he wanted to be. He had paused to consider it over the years, in quiet, lonely moments, usually after receiving a letter from her. Or those afternoons at The Burrow before Harry arrived, and it was just the two of them while the twins chorused somewhere in the house with obnoxious songs about sitting in trees. As suddenly as those notions had appeared, he had pushed them down, though as he got older they became harder to deny and repress.

Now, it was age and the threat of no more sunrises. A part of him was beginning to doubt whether he and his two best friends would make it through this ordeal.

And finally he admitted to himself what he had known for so long, on some secret level buried deep inside. What he had thought as soon as her voice had come from the Deluminator. What he only now was willing to voice to himself, but maybe not quite yet to her in this state.

He loved her.

And he would do whatever she wanted, or needed, or requested, and so he bent slightly and grazed his lips over her arm carefully. He could feel her blood on his lips and he did not wipe it away as he moved over the wound, placing another two kisses upon it.

_He loved her. He loved her. He loved her._

He pulled back, locked eyes for a heartbeat, then bent and kissed her forehead for a long moment.

_He loved her._


End file.
